


Hygges And Kisses

by fairywine



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Excessive Cuddling, F/F, Fluff, SO MUCH FLUFF, Sap to the Max, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-18
Updated: 2014-06-18
Packaged: 2018-02-05 06:15:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1808389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fairywine/pseuds/fairywine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Norway loves Denmark's hugs. And never plans to admit this as such.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hygges And Kisses

**Author's Note:**

> Hetalia Kink meme fill, any female/any female cuddling. Hygge is a Danish cultural concept that’s a bit hard to exactly pinpoint due to nuances, but a good enough explanation is “spending a calm, comfortable time with good friends or loved ones”.

Dark secrets are simply part of the deal for Nations-all of them have their own, blights on the soul never meant to see the light of day, inevitably acquired over the course of long and tumultuous lives. It goes without saying that some are of a different order than others, though.

Denmark, when not trying to bring showmanship into the matter, gives the best hugs in the world.

That’s not the secret. The secret part is _Norway_ is the one who thinks that, and would be beyond mortified if this opinion were to be made public knowledge. She has a reputation to think of, after all. If she ever goes so far as to fall to the level of Sweden and Finland, what with soulful glances, hand holding, and no-I-love- _you_ -more sessions (or so Norway assumes, it seems like something they’d do), that will officially be her cue to jump into one of her fjords and never come out again.

But it doesn’t matter how often or fiercely Norway swears she’ll stop; she goes back to contact with Denmark like a lush to his bottle. Perhaps to some it’d seem something of an overreaction, but Norway’s had to fight hard to be her own Nation. She wouldn’t give up her independence for anyone, and feels her wariness for anything that has the potential to threaten it only common sense.

At the same time there’s no denying how she needs those embraces. Norway’s territory is cold, jagged mountains scattered about like sacrificial altars where warmth goes to die. She wouldn’t change it for anything, but some days the frigidness seeps so deep into her bones Norway half-fears she’ll remain frozen and unmoving forever. Body heat helps, but people so rarely touch her-not her bosses, out of a cocktail of respect and inability to really comprehend her nature. Not Sweden, who kept a careful distance after 1814 and even more after 1905 in her own way of apologizing, or Finland, who is friendly enough but understands the need for personal space probably the best out of everyone, or even Iceland, who seems to have inherited Norway’s wariness for contact potentially threatening autonomy.

Denmark’s always been the only one who has understood Norway well enough to be unafraid to cut through all the posturing, straight and sharp as an axe blade. It’s no small source of amazement for her that people continue to mistake the Dane’s straightforward nature and overly oblivious cheer for lack of intelligence. Even Sweden who should really know better occasionally falls prey to this, but Norway still remembers well when Kongeriget Danmark had all of Northern Europe collared and held the leash. Denmark’s mellowed out since then, but the canniness has never truly left her. Even when Norway successfully hides her shivering from the others when the leaves start to fall, or the way her fingers tint pale blue to suit the falling snow outside, Denmark always finds out without fail.

Norway usually gets out a good number of protests, maybe a couple shoves and a reprieve or two before the Dane tries again. But the other Nordic never fails to get her way after her concessions to Norway’s pride, and they end up in the same position every time since before the age of Vikings; curled up around each other letting heat and air meld.

The Norwegian Nation thinks of all this as she stares out the window of Denmark’s country house in Roskilde, distantly registering the pitter-patter of the autumn rainfall while she holds a fresh mug of coffee laced with the barest hint of sugar and something more of a hint of crème de cacao. It’s very hot and she can feel the flesh of her fingers warming up, but it’s not _enough_ in the same way a dinner roll can’t compare to a whole feast. She doesn’t make any allowances for it beyond drawing her knees up and clutching her drink a little more tightly.

“Eh, Nor? Is it not good?” Denmark cuts into her musing as she so often does. The taller woman has a tray laden up with all manner of cookies and other sweets, and she sets it down on the sleek wooden coffee table before settling herself on the couch next to Norway. “I can make you a new one if you like.”

“It’s fine,” Norway says shortly, even if she hasn’t actually tasted the beverage yet. Experience tells her she doesn’t need to-Denmark has always been the better cook out of the two of them, and her coffee is likewise excellent. She takes a cursory sip then, lets the hot liquid slide down her throat while she tries not to stare at the other Nordic. There are a couple logs roaring in the fireplace, and the Dane’s burnished gold hair and red sweater capture the soft light to transform her into an avatar of the flames. If heat and temptation could have a living form, they’d look like Denmark. Cursing her own weakness, Norway drinks her coffee some more and tries to pretend ice isn’t winning the fight for her veins. She can feel winter’s imminent arrival the way fish feel intruders into their waters, slow ripples heralding unwelcome guests.

“Really? That’s great!” Denmark says with such a wide and genuine grin Norway _has_ to let out a tiny snort at it just to live with herself. She reaches over for a butter cookie and the motion causing her to brush against Norway, the warmth of her sweater-covered arm feeling heavenly. Norway takes a deep breath, teeth sinking into her lower lip as she thinks of control. Denmark’s eyes rest on her without subtlety, and she knows beyond a doubt the dance has begun.

“Say, Norge-”

“No.”

The first exchange of blows, equal in weight but the more effective strike is Denmark’s. Sensing this on some primal level (typical), the tall blonde presses the attack with a winsome pout and protest of: “You didn’t even let me finish!”

“After all this time, I don’t think I should need to. It’s not like you’re especially difficult to read.” Norway sets her mug down upon a coaster with care, and thinks wryly of knowing someone better than oneself. “You only ever start a sentence with ‘say, Norge’ when you think I’m going to say no to something.”

This slows Denmark down five seconds at the most.

“Come on!” The Dane pleads, voice _just_ on the edge of a whine. She gestures expansively, to the lit candles dotting flat surfaces here and there in favor of electric lighting, to the rain drenched windows. “You couldn’t arrange a more perfect setting if you tried!” Her tone goes a bit softer. “And you’ve been so busy lately this is the first time I’ve gotten you to myself in a month.”

“We’re Nations, when are we not busy?” Norway points out, but she can feel herself weakening. Unsurprisingly, Denmark catches it and goes in for the kill.

“Please? Just a little, that’s all.” The Dane gives her a look rapt with hopefulness, and despite her annoyance with it Norway’s always been more susceptible to that expression from her than most. Just about the only saving grace she has is that she’s pretty good at hiding it.

“Maybe if I believed the ‘just a little’ part, but you somehow always manage to make ‘little’ stretch out to-”

“Well, yeah,” Denmark laughs openly, blue eyes glowing with warmth so different from their cool color. “But I can’t help it! Once I hold you it’s impossible to stop.”

The shattering noise Norway faintly hears in the back of her mind must be the last of her resistance crumbling. She turns her face away, because if she’s going to give in this easily she doesn’t want Denmark to see the way her cheeks are going pink.

She really is so weak, sometimes.

“Fine. If it spares me from being harangued all night long-” Norway starts to say, but Denmark pulls her into her arms and there’s no more need for words now.

Capturing in words just what made Denmark’s embraces so _special_ has always been beyond Norway. She’s tried before, of course-warmth and comfort and happiness all blurred together is the best she can do-but it’s never quite enough. There’s always some intrinsic piece that’s missing, one she can’t pin down.

Norway knows what Denmark herself would tell her , _‘It’s hygge, Nor, hygge!’_ , and maybe she’d even be right. It’s one of those intricacies of Danish culture she simply can’t grasp as well as the other woman.

Then Denmark tightens her hold just a bit, and Norway stops thinking in favor of melting into it. They’re draped against each other now, and she tucks her face in the curve of the Dane’s body where neck and shoulder meet, breathes in spices and sugar and skin. Norway’s whole body loses its tension as if by magic, warmth chasing away the cold that had been settling so viciously in her bones. She can feel Denmark’s heart beating steady and strong, and if she had been in more of a state to pay attention, Norway would have noticed her own heart rate slowing to match as it lulls her.

Denmark presses little kisses here and there-on her temple, her cheek, anywhere she can reach without having to move-and sweet chasteness of it feels right. They have all night together, and there will be plenty of time for fiery kisses. Right now, this is exactly what she needs. Norway nuzzles against Denmark slowly, because that sort of response is so rare coming from her she always feels slightly shy about doing it. But it delights Denmark, she knows.

“Love you, Nor,” Denmark murmurs, low and happy. There’s nothing in her that looks as if she expects a response, or is disappointed about the lack of it. The fact the number of times Norway’s said ‘I love you’ to her over centuries of relations could be counted with one hand is something she’s learned to accept. Norway does feel guilty about it in the back of her mind-she’s well aware she’s far from the most easygoing of lovers already, and her inability to express herself makes things that much more difficult-but she doesn’t worry about it being any danger to their relationship. Denmark has her moments of childishness and annoyance, but when she’s really made up her mind about something she’s more immovable than a mountain range. By now it’d be an insult to call her choice into question.

Besides, Denmark knows she’s the one Norway loves best. And that’s the thing that really matters.

Still, Norway _wants_ to say it back, tries to, but the words remain trapped on her tongue. Frustration makes her choke up a bit, but Denmark pulls her closer to rub her thumb in a steady circle on the small of her back and she feels better despite herself. Outside, the rain picks up to a steady beat, drumming against the windows relentlessly. It creates an almost cocoon-like effect with its presence-somehow the Dane’s living room gains an oddly removed sensation from the rest of the world. It’s nice, though, the illusion of getting away from the weight of their everyday lives regardless of how flimsy it may be. Norway won’t deny the stability of the modern age has its advantages over the chaos of the past, but sometimes she misses the era where the only worry was making it through one day at a time. Things were so much simpler, then.

They lay together for a while, the warmth and quiet and Denmark’s steady heartbeat sending Norway straight to the twilight zone between true sleep and wakefulness. She’s nearly nodded off completely when Denmark suddenly rises, scooping her up with ease.

“Den?” Norway murmurs, unable to muster her usual resistance.

“Bed would be more comfy than my couch,” Denmark says, smiling softly. “You deserve a good night’s rest for once.”

Already dressed for the night, they settle together comfortably in the habit of centuries upon centuries. Denmark pulls Norway close under the sheets, not even bothering for permission, but the shorter Nation is feeling magnanimous enough to let it slide. The faintest smirk passes over her lips, unseen by the oblivious Dane. Sleep for now, but rewarding Denmark for her good behavior is something Norway’s definitely looking forward to in the morning. Settling down fully, Norway drifts into sleep, her last half-registered thought being she understands _hygge_ a little better now.

 

 


End file.
